


In The Space Between, I found you.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mycroft, God of Death, is tasked with a strange burden. After a dying man see's his face he decides to seek him out again. Killing in order to have Mycroft reappear nearer. Sherlock, God of Life, is not pleased and demands Mycroft deal with this personally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a work I abandoned previously. You can see the original here. https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509818

Mycroft stared out into the cold abyss that was his realm, untouched by the light or the living; everything consisted of white, grey, and muted colors – a crystal clear image of the afterlife and permutations thereof. He had rarely left the oasis in the last eon; his captured souls able to do the brunt of the legwork for him. Every four hundred years, or so, a soul appeared that caused a rift in the fabrics that he and his brother had so carefully laid out. Sherlock, the very image of alien beauty and purity stood out against Mycroft’s realm. Sherlock’s own realm glittered with silver and gold. An ethereal aura followed him as he fluttered between the realms unable to stay still for very long. Some called him God, others Destiny, but Mycroft knew very well what he truly was; a keeper of the human realm. There were many realms similar to their own, each with their own holder of life and of death. Unlike the strange creation stories that human-kind had engorged themselves with they were not sacrificial lambs or men of meditation, or rather the nothingness that some believed in. They were simply beings of a higher power watching those unable to protect themselves from one another.

He shifted on his throne; his fine silk suit was clear, nearly transparent and gave an unreal quality to his being. Tall in stature with a slim build and dark eyes during his thought, he knew himself to be rather frightening to the humans below. He had once adorned himself in flowing black robes which accentuated his height and fair skin but the effect soon wore off as the humans began to turn their fear into humor, forgetting about the ghoul who stole their children in the night. Now he took upon himself the outfit of their leaders, and feared terrorists - the outfit of the politician. At first, he would admit, the idea seemed strange. What was frightening about a three piece suit adorned with cuff-links and tie pins but the more he traveled in waking realm viewing the destruction with his own eyes the easier it became to realize the cruelty of man lay in their misguided leaders. Watching civilizations burn because of a singular mans greed had quenched his thirst for blood shed. The latest influx of souls had been the effect of one man’s attempt to unite the world under one religion and race; Mycroft scoffed at the idea. The universe was large, infinite even, and there were many species that would find the human form distasteful. He supposed however that was the reason for he and his brother’s post here; protecting those who cannot protect themselves.

Unfortunately, Mycroft, unlike his darling brother, was equated to Lucifer, the beautiful fallen angel, the Grim Reaper - the demon. His job had begun with the bacterium and water, the creation of the land masses and the stars; each constellation placed with the utmost respect and care by Sherlock and himself - stories to recount their own histories lest they forget them during their lifetimes. Mycroft, regardless of his eidetic memory found some of his oldest memories beginning to fade, barely remembering his own lineage. Shaking his head of such thoughts he moved upwards, gracefully leaving his throne, no longer aware of its beauty after so many years. The throne was pulled up the floor, a beautiful topaz, which turned to dust as he left it, only to rise again for its rightful heir. Mycroft had spent much of his eternity wondering if he would ever fade, or if he and his throne would forever stay an unchanging point in time even after the human race had withered away.

He pushed the thoughts away. Today was a special day for Mycroft; destiny had already set in motion a six car pileup in order to take the life of a Doctor John Watson. Mycroft, of course, couldn’t let that happen. It was one of the many perks of the job, weighing the consequences of letting of man live on borrowed time. John Watson was a 32 year old male that lacked any spouse or offspring but would soon discover the cure to a dangerous form of cancer spreading in highly populated areas. Mycroft had already picked another person to die in his place, a dark conflicted soul whose afterlife would finally bring her the relief life never would, Mary Morstan. Her life had already suffered abandonment, orphaning, and later, if he let her live, divorce and unfortunately, assassinations. No, it would be merciful to let her die early. He let the picture of the John Watson flood his mind like smoke becoming entrapped in glass until it formed a clear image. When he opened his eyes he was standing in the street, his sheer suit glittering against the hot summer sun. He raised an eyebrow at the sky’s decidedly clear forecast; London was never so agreeable, perhaps the universe knew of his plan and was showing him good favor.

The man was lying outside his car, his faulty seat belt allowing him to shatter the windshield and skid across the hot pavement until the friction slowed him down to a painful stop. Mycroft did not increase his pace, nor did he worry himself with the other in their cars. He could see his own civil servants standing near their respected souls ready to take them away into the world of the dead.

He often wondered why they feared it so completely. They simply found themselves in the realm surrounded by their late family members. Mycroft thought himself rather pleasant considering most assumed he would torture them for the rest of eternity. Rolling his eyes at the thought of all that work he came to a stop in front of the doctor. His ragged breaths of pained moaning slipping from his throat. Mycroft was satisfied to see his only injuries were a broken leg – he would suffer a limp – and the possibility of a large shoulder scar from the glass he’d shattered. Mycroft found himself staring at the gentleman, taking in his tanned skin from his recent tour of Afghanistan and the marks around his nails, obvious signs of stress and worry. Something about the man caused Mycroft’s throat to tighten. He looked familiar in the same way a street you’ve never walked down seems to crawl into the recesses of your mind and slowly convince you that you have indeed been there before - and enjoyed yourself.

He waited until the paramedics rushed to the other victims after stabilizing John rather quickly. Mycroft bent down pressing his hand deep into John’s torso, pulling a thin wisp of transparent silvery mist out slowly. The mist swirled in the wind, slowly solidifying until the doctor stood before him unmoving and without fear. It made, for the second time in his existence, his stomach flutter.

“FUCK!” John turned looking down at his body; a deep crease forming in his brow while a grimace over took his exquisite features. “I was so close to finding that cure!”

Mycroft smirked surprised by the complete disregard John had for the ‘grim reaper’ in front of him. The doctor wasn’t afraid, or even curious, he was simply, selflessly worrying for those he had left. A character trait Mycroft found only in the very few beings he came for himself; Mother Teresa had been one of his favorites. It had been an honor to take her into his realm to meet the lives of those she had touched.

“Doctor Watson, you are not going to die.” Mycroft stated. The doctor jumped, not realizing Mycroft’s presence. Instantly turning his gaze back on to Mycroft, flexing his fingers and readying himself for a fight. Mycroft rolled his eyes in response.

“Are you going to fight me Doctor Watson?”

To his credit the other man sheepishly unclenched his fists, slowly, calculating whether he should be afraid. The Doctor’s bravery won as he stepped forward, now inches from Mycroft’s chest, attempting to intimidate the larger man. “How would you know if I’m going to die or not? What’re you? Some kind of ghost?”

Mycroft allowed himself a deep, sonorous laugh that echoed throughout the spaces of the small area. Mycroft was a part of this universe, it was his own body and passion from which the Earth was shaped. The wind and nature seemed to wrap itself around him and mimic his emotions when he visited. John seemed to pick up on this as the leaves swirled around them, dancing momentarily, their beautiful fall colors creating a soft rainbow of red and gold around them until they fell around their feet softly, Mycroft’s humor disappearing as well. The realm in which John’s spirit and he were in currently was an in between realm of sorts. It was the few spaces left in between his realm and Sherlock’s realm of the living. A neutral zone he liked to think of it.

“Ghost? Dear child, I am Walker of Realms, the guardian of souls, the keeper of the undead.” Mycroft had to admit that sounded daunting even to himself, but simply giving his name never seemed to properly help the souls understand his job description.

“Wait, you just said I wasn’t going to die? And now you’re telling me you’re the bloody keeper of dead people? Am I going to hell because I’ve lost people during surgeries?” John turned pacing in between Mycroft and his now quieted body, his worry obvious. Attempting to be more direct, Mycroft spoke up again.

“I haven’t time to tell you the mysterious of the universe, Doctor Watson. You only have a few more minutes in this realm. In order to revive yourself from this state you must wake up and remove the shard of glass slowly moving towards you heart. You will have four minutes. Do you understand? I cannot do this for you.”

Mycroft hadn’t intended to start circling John but he found himself nervous. John Watson didn’t seem as put together as he had in Mycroft’s visions. He had seen the soldier, and the doctor - never the man.

“Okay. Okay. Glass. Heart. I can do this. Think of the children, John.” The doctor muttered to himself encouragingly. The Doctor was beginning to come out of John. His posture was beginning to straighten, and his confidence was returning slowly. “Doctor Watson, are you ready?” Mycroft asked.

John looked back at him, biting his lip worryingly. “Y-Yes.”

Mycroft nodded respectfully before placing a hand on John’s shoulder, watching as the man began to turn into smoky wisps of condensation as he returned John’s soul into his body. He could feel the other man jump under his steady grip, afraid but determined. Slipping the soul back into John’s body felt good and correct; he prayed the Doctor could remember his advice. Watching as John’s body reanimated and time began to work again outside of the realm he stood stoically, watching the scene unfold.

John began to cough, the blood from his lungs slowly rising into his throat and cutting off his breathing; easy enough to fix, easier than a punctured heart – 4 minutes left.

He rolled onto his side, desperately attempting to rip the fabric of the plaid button up shirt that was currently plastered to his body due to his own sweat and blood – 3 minutes left.

A minute had passed and Mycroft found himself pacing anxiously. No one had come back to check on John Watson yet and the man had barely finished opening his shirt – 2 minutes left. Mycroft’s heart – or at least his chest, as he lacked a human heart – was heaving and his entire entity was pulsing. The realm was beginning to mimic his havoc, the clear sky quickly darkening, and the wind beginning to whip; everywhere except for the few feet surrounding John Watson.

The amount of focus he was currently giving the area had slowed the environment to a crawl, something he rarely used. He needed time to work with John Watson, not against him.

John yelled in pain as he dug his dirty fingers into the hole near his heart, the glass slicing his fingers as he attempted to remove it – 1 minute left. With one final pull the glass came out, lying on the ground near him, his shoulder bleeding profusely.

Thirty seconds were left and the paramedics had yet to return, assuming John was alright until they patched up the other’s; Mycroft knew the others had no hope, there souls were already leaving the realm, but John Watson was meant to live and they were killing him.

The moment he saw John’s soul beginning to rise up out of his body, he threw his emotions into a huff of frustration that shook the trees and caused the sky to unleash a crack of lightning and it’s respective thunder.

He could hear the civilians around him yelling in surprise at the sudden storm, but it didn’t matter the paramedics were running towards John now. 10 seconds now, John’s body was beginning to form against the ground, his wispy soul solidifying rapidly as his body failed him. Mycroft sank to his knees, an unfamiliar sensation of failure wracking his body as he grabbed John’s hand and held it to his face. The contact was not meant to comfort the John, but rather help keep him between realms as long as possible. The paramedics were yelling around them, walking through and around their ethereal bodies but Mycroft paid them no mind. John was beginning to wake again in this realm.

“Y-you’re beautiful.” His words were breathy as if he’d truly seen a magnificent sight and Mycroft unwittingly smiled at the comment his clothing brightening with his burst of hopefulness.

“John, focus, you need to wake up.”

The sizzling shock of the machine near them electrified the air between them as the man nearest yelled, “Clear!” John’s body seemed to glitch out momentarily as his body tried to start up, pulling his soul back in erratically.

“Are you an angel? Tell me who you are p-please.” John was clinging to him now and Mycroft knew that a connection between them would keep him from returning to his own body.

“I am Death and you are not dying.”

With those final words, he reminded himself caring was a disadvantage to all those who no longer held breathe in their lungs. He shook John’s grip forcing, with all his determination, to break their bond entirely. John’s eyes closed as the last “Clear!” was yelled and the last of his wispy figure was cemented back into his now groaning figure.

Mycroft turned away ignoring the confused and frightened faces of his servants surrounding him, attempting to comfort him. They knew the pain of loss much better than he and today he found himself comforted that their pain was now known to him. It hurt him to think how painful losing someone close to you must be if losing a ‘pet’ felt that terrible.

****

The sheer enormity of the situation and his emotional state bore down upon him in full when his brother entered the realm of the dead, his robe, adorned with a bounty of autumn leaves and golden accents, contrasted heavily with the blacks and blues of Mycroft’s realm.

“You’ve been sulking Mycroft. I thought that was my forte.” Sherlock seemed to float inches above the ground unlike Mycroft who chose to actively use his body in the likeness of the human souls around him, walking one foot in front of the other. He did his best to ignore his brothers unspoken question; in their eternity Mycroft had never reacted out of sentiment towards his ‘pets’ as they often referred to the souls they tended to – Sherlock feared the being capable of ripping the emotions from his brothers stone cold grasp.

“Brother mine, I am not sulking. I am merely replaying situational variables in my mind and defining the probabilities of such situations replaying in the future.” Mycroft was of course lying through his teeth but he doubted Sherlock would care enough to press the subject, his discomfort from the Shadow Realm energy field evident in the already wilting leaves surrounding his robe. Sherlock’s previously green leaves were now the utmost image of fall in full bloom after minutes of standing in the darkness.

“Misdirection… How quaint. I hear you found yourself a goldfish? Definitely /not/ boring.” He clicked his tongue at Mycroft, his humor dancing underneath his thinly veiled expression of disinterest. Mycroft kept his gaze elsewhere refusing to give Sherlock a response. His brother continued not expecting one, “It was hard not to hear you this morning. Your outburst nearly shifted the season in London. Did you know that? Half of their trees began turning today.”

He circled his brother’s throne, running his finger along it, enjoying the line of dust that began to appear as an unworthy heir caressed it; the topaz dust breaking off with soft hum of energy. Stopping he reached out, cementing the peak of his inquiry, as he brushed his finger against Mycroft’s own pale white check, the warmth of Sherlock’s life energy flowing into Mycroft’s own darkness cheered him slightly; the obvious intended effect. Mycroft was able to stabilize Sherlock’s emotional side; numbing it until it was bearable; whereas Sherlock could bring out the emotion that Mycroft buried underneath the tundra within himself.

“Why are you so interested Sherlock?” He halfheartedly brushed Sherlock’s finger away, almost hoping that he wouldn’t be discouraged by the action. Mycroft had an image to maintain but he found he enjoyed the warmth of the living to the cold of the dead occasionally. His brother huffed in exasperation, running a hand through his dark mane, beautiful brown and green vines appeared interwoven into it as his fingers sifted through.

“Perhaps, I have found my own Goldfish and I wish to see you find your own?” He shrugged, “Or perhaps, I am simply curious as to what moved you so completely earlier this day?”

No longer wishing to drag out the interrogation further Mycroft conceded to speak. “He was a simple man; John Watson; a doctor; an army captain; a good man. Today I traded his life for that of an unhappy orphan. It was so clear and simple, Sherlock. I was distanced, as I always am,” he shot his brother a look daring him to say otherwise. Sherlock said nothing, but let his finger tip touch Mycroft’s own, letting a comforting aura settle over them both. “The paramedics they left him there, alone, on the highway. He was so bloody, and brave, and the will to live was so strong. I’ve never seen a soul hold on for so long. Watching him gave me such a strong feeling of satisfaction, but the paramedics, brother mine, they were so incompetent. His soul nearly escaped his body… he was speaking… nonsense.”

The thought of John Watson calling him an angel brought a flush to his white cheeks. He put his head down, focusing on the emotional bonding between them letting the connection strengthen his will to continue. “At first, it was simply that I wanted the children to be saved. He is going to create a cure that will help millions… but then he spoke to me; said words that moved me and I found a crevice in my cold dark heart filled with a new emotion of light… I have never felt such intensity.”

He quieted, already feeling as if he was too open, to talkative, and much to out of character; not unkindly, he removed his fingers from Sherlock’s attempting to restrain the inner emotions that were currently fighting their way up due to Sherlock’s gift. His brother’s face was one of curiosity and pain, something he found daunting to look at. His brother felt no pain, which was the perk of feeling so intensely alive constantly; it was a high with no low. He felt no fear, no pain, and no sadness; those feelings were reserved for Mycroft alone to bear witness to. The idea that his story had pained Sherlock frightened him.

“I won’t speak any more about your situation since it discomfits you, but will instead share my own experiences.” Sherlock smiled, changing the subject, a small gesture of his hand pulling up from the ground a magnificent throne of tree roots, intertwined in order to offer him rest. As he fell into the resting place, his mere presence caused the throne to change around him, the roots growing thicker and thin vines and leaves coming to life as his essence seeped into the chair. “I, myself, have met a ‘goldfish’. He is interesting and curious; attached fondly to those which wish him only harm and ill will. I find the latter fact disturbingly common of the human realm.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s confession surprised at the amount of time his brother was currently spending in the Shadow Realm. The place itself strained Sherlock’s energy sending him back into his own realm to replenish his energy after a time, but his brother seemed determined to speak to him. In all the eon’s they had lived, they were truly each other’s only equals. Their conversations, while far and in between, helped Mycroft feel alive. Sherlock continued not giving his brother room to interrupt.

“He’s a curious individual. He solves crimes – interesting isn’t it? I didn’t find him that way, mind you. I was properly adhering souls in a ward correcting the damaged souls of individuals fighting comatose states and whatnot and I found him outside an old mans bed. Unlikely to be a family member as he lives alone, divorced you see, and most assuredly too young to be a father figure. After sleuthing,” He grinned at Mycroft, albeit aware of his older brothers exasperation with his detective hobby, “through the patients files and listening to a few conversations I found out the gentleman had no family and the man visits him, pretending to be his son so the nurses won’t keep reminding the man his family is gone.” He smiled at the memory, “I’ve kept track of him lately, and he’s rather beautiful, full of life and hope. I intend on showing myself to him soon.”

Mycroft gasped sharply, taken aback by Sherlock’s powerful words. “You can’t be serious? Mortals do not take well to such things!” His posture was tense, and he sat up straight in his throne deigning a more proper posture as he looked over his brother’s figure, relaxed and laid back in the throne, one leg hanging off of the arm rest.

“Why not? Why shouldn’t we get to have one other person in the world that knows we exist? I’m not asking him to /worship/ me, only to acknowledge my presence - my friendship.” He rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s worrying.

“And if he says no, Sherlock? What will you do then? Erase his memories? Ask me to take him to the Shadow realm? This is a terrible idea.”

Sherlock stood, the throne beneath him crumbling quickly without his touch, the decay mimicking Sherlock’s current emotions of anger and irritation. “BUT WHAT IF HE SAYS YES, MYCROFT? We can’t constantly live in the pessimistic side of the realms! We deserve love Mycroft, even if we ourselves are incapable!” He finished his rant with a stomp, fists clenched; his thin figure shaking with frustration.

Mycroft merely looked down sighing in defeat, “Only one of us is incapable of love Sherlock, and I believe we both know it is I who shoulder the loneliness fully.” He slumped back into his chair, his image of professionalism slipping away as he chewed on the thought of revealing himself to a lesser creature. Sherlock batted away his words with a golden hand, no longer listening.

“You can sit here in this great realm all alone, or you can attempt to find something more important than this madness out there. I for one refuse to be a creature trapped in a golden cage.”

****

Mycroft stares outward at the beings under his command, each one smiling and seeming hauntingly beautiful to him as they embrace one another for the umpteenth time in the last few hours; something he doesn’t understand anymore. Of course one might hug their friends and family when he first takes them to the realm -that’s understandable. They've been gone for years, sometimes decades without seeing one another, but to continuously seek the same comforts day after day when the souls /know/ they will be together for eternity, well, it baffles him to be honest. He sits at his throne, a small hole torn in the fabric of his realm so that he may view his next few subjects departures in real time. Weeks have passed since his last incident and he’s watched each soul depart with renewed fervor, hoping to reignite the feelings he had when saving John. Each time he finds himself disappointed at his lack of emotion. This new feeling of curiosity and longing is eating him alive and he spends more and more time arguing with himself about visiting the Doctors - for check up purposes entirely, and not self indulgence.

“I see you’ve not moved in more than months time. Are you really that caught up in sentimental games, Mycroft?”

He startled caught unawares of his brothers presence. Mycroft refuses to debate Sherlock’s point, his obvious distracted state more than enough answer for them both.

“Either way I’ve come to spur you into action, brother dear.” He paused near the chair, bending down to his seated brothers height, gently placing his entire palm on Mycroft’s cheek, giving him an unfair emotional advantage over his older brother. “Your pet is slaughtering /my/ pets. He’s decided to find the alleged angel of death he saw in his dreams.”

Mycroft turned his face towards Sherlock’s quickly, his breath catching and his eyes dilating. Not even he could answer whether his sudden physical state of interest was due to the mention of the doctor, or the mere fact the doctor was killing for him, in a way. “You’re sure?” The words were soft, and weak, but his tone gave away his morbid curiosity.

His brother let out a loud huff of annoyance, removing his hand as if burnt. “I was hoping for a more sentimental reaction, rather than homicidal affections, Mycroft. You’re little project is killing innocents! Take care of him or I will, Mycroft.” Sherlock hissed the final words towards Mycroft, his golden leaves turning dark and thick vines that reminded Mycroft of snakes seemed to rise up momentarily.

“Calm yourself Sherlock, I will see to the nuisance as soon as you let me leave. I shouldn’t want to see any more in my realm than necessary. We are already quite full.” It was a lie of course. The shadow realm would not be filled for eons but the words felt less heavy than the excitement that rested deep in his abdomen. Sherlock blinked, containing his emotional rage, before turning on heel and uttering indecencies towards Mycroft.

“TAKE CARE OF IT, MYCROFT.”

****


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft is not surprised to find Sherlock's truth lacking as he begins to research the doctor. Sherlock, indeed, was right about one thing though, the doctor did intend to kill again. Only, it was himself. Mycroft sits outside the human realm of cognizance, watching the doctor as he delves deeper and deeper into a negative energy. The tides were turning, and Mycroft knew that John was beginning to lose focus of the mission he was meant for. The cure was seemingly beginning second place to his constant dreams and thoughts of Mycroft. He thought Mycroft was an angel, a beautiful representation of death and heaven. How wrong the doctor was. Mycroft could offer him nothing, no affections, no love, nothing more than a place to return to. Though for John, family would do him no good. He relationships with his family were strained and he would find no happiness in the realm of the dead, not yet. John pouring over his notes heaves a heavy sigh, pushing away from the mostly tidy desk and moving towards the window sill. 

"What a strange day." He says to himself absentmindedly, his gaze, as Mycroft follows it outwards seems to be focused on the leaves, now turning rather rapidly towards their fall colors. "First, I'm almost coded and then I'm back here dreaming of a man in a suit..."

Mycroft perks up at the mention, confused by his ability to remember anything of the neutral realm. It took great effort for humans to come back to their bodies much less remember the out of body experience. Of course, they do remember sometimes. There's plenty of books on the subject, but most are inaccurate, speaking of dark tunnels and light. It's nothing like that, except during birth. Of course, if Sherlock grants them ressurection, it could happen, but Mycroft determines his thoughts are running away with him and John is far more interesting than conjecture.

A girl pops in, smiling, eyes bright with mousy looks and brown hair. Mycroft knows every human being by name as it is his job to mark them off the list of living when their time comes. Molly Hooper has entered the room, a white jacket over soft pink scrubs. "I can't believe you're back at work already... Are you sure you took off long enough? I know you're tough but wow, I mean ... you know that was a big deal."

John gives her a wry smile, getting a blush from Molly with little effort. "Molly, I know. It's been ... overwhelming but I think I need to be back here. If I'm home any longer... by myself... I'll lose my mind." She sheepishly nods at him, accepting his explanation as reasonable even if her anxiety is still apparent. 

"Okay, John. See you around." She starts to walk out before turning around and adding quietly, "If you need anything, I'm here."

The way her words speak to something darker has Mycroft looking back and forth between them but she doesn't wait for an answer, leaving the room immediately. John clears up any questions with his next few words, the act of talking to himself out loud becoming of great value to Mycroft's understanding.

"Did everyone hear about my stay at the ward? Damn them all..."

****

It takes little to no time for Mycroft to piece together the story as he follows him around and curiously explores the places he's been the past month. In a ward due to being a danger to himself, in a hospital prior to that for trying to rip open his heart wound, and now, Mycroft can see him staring at pills in the hospital cabinets. He shouldn't be at work but no one dares to keep him away. With a breakthrough that could happen at any moment, they are truly turning a blind eye to his antics.

He waits, watching, as John goes to swallows a cock tail that will no doubt harm him. Mycroft reaches out instinctively, pulling him from one realm into another. Just the mere touch sends John's body in the living world into convulsions on the floor. Mycroft has no more than a thirty seconds to speak to him before he will begin to choke on his own bile and begin to suffer symptoms of stroke.

John's eyes in the neutral realm widen, filled with excitement, with curiosity, and most of all, desire. Not in a way of wantonness but in knowledge, in wanting to reach out and make sure he's not crazy.

Mycroft doesn't have much time to speak and he doesn't allow John to speak at all. Opening his own mouth and speaking in clear, deep tones. Commanding John's attention.

"You cannot seek me out. You must find the cure. I will not be so kind again, John Watson."

There's a moment where John tries to speak, to move closer, to inspect Mycroft no doubt but he's already let go of him, allowed his soul and body to reconnect. There's a nurse standing in the doorway, staring down at him, calling for Molly Hooper. It looks incriminating but John will no doubt talk his way out of a convulsion on the floor with pills surrounding him. John's eyes fly open and Mycroft could swear he was able to see him, that he was staring straight at him.

"What's deaths name?" John says, dazed and confused, the nurses all staring at him with bewilderment. Concern spreads across their faces as they take his vitals and lift him up, one calling the EMT's to the room.

****

The verdict is clear and John is finally released a day later. His body went into shock from the stress of returning to work they say, that he had a breakdown that created a toxic environment for his organs and it somehow affected him. In reality, no one could understand why a mostly healthy man of just 45 had nearly dropped dead for the second time. But John was not worried when the doctors told him what they found, he could read the charts as well as they could. Nothing was wrong with him, nothing but a close call with death himself - again.

He smiled looking at the charts and graphs. It was beautiful - magic even - that this could have happened. He felt re-energized. It felt validating to know that he wasn't crazy, that indeed, death had looked upon his visage and found him worthy of living , not once, but twice.

He took this newfound fervor back to his work, back towards the cure, but every night he spoke out to Mycroft, wondering if he could hear. If death was all knowing or not. "Thank you, death, for a new beginning." It was incredibly exciting to hear the words, to feel the worship that his brother typically received. It nearly gave him a warmth of sorts.

****


End file.
